Ghost Sniper (23 page)

56

TOLUCA, MEXICO

09:00 HOURS

Crosswhite had returned to Mexico City early in the morning, leaving Vaught to keep an eye on Ortega's family. Nancy and Paolina were getting along well, and the children were having fun playing with the puppy, which Valencia had named Chance at Crosswhite's urging. Paolina remained unaware that Nancy and the kids were there under false pretenses.

Vaught didn't like being cooped up in the house. He wanted to be at the police station with the men. Things were too quiet around town for his comfort, and he was already bored playing babysitter. Not to mention he still felt like a shitheel using a woman and two children as pawns in a war that was partially of his making. Mendoza and his family were already dead. How many more innocent lives would it take to bring down Serrano and the gringo sniper? There had to be a limit. But then again, that was what men
like Serrano counted on: people being afraid to risk innocent lives.

“Breakfast?” Paolina asked from the kitchen doorway, much nicer to him now.

“Yes, please.”

Ortega's son brought over the puppy and placed it in Vaught's lap, saying in English, “You have the same name, so you have a
dog's
name!”

Vaught chuckled, scratching the pup's ears. “Sounds that way, doesn't it?”

Nancy brought him a plate of eggs and refried beans. “How soon will you hear from Dan?”

“I'm not sure.” He handed the puppy back to the boy and accepted the plate, noting the worry on her face. “I've got a good feeling though, Nancy. I think he'll have good news when he calls.”

She looked away, blinking her eyes to prevent them from tearing up. “I hope so. Corrupt police scare me more than anything. They're twice as dangerous as regular criminals.”

“That's true, but they're also twice as vulnerable.”

She returned to the kitchen.

Paolina brought her own plate into the living room and sat down in the chair beside Vaught, checking to make sure Nancy wasn't paying attention. “Daniel took his pistol with him. He doesn't usually do that. What's going on?”

“Mexico City is a dangerous place to be right now. There's a lot of civil unrest, and he's a gringo.”

Paolina moved her food around on her plate with her fork. “Is there any chance she'll get her husband back?”

He glanced toward the kitchen. “Normally, I'd say probably not, but under the circumstances, I think the chances are pretty good.”

“What's different about these circumstances?”

“Dan is different. He's on top of it.”

She looked at him, her pretty young face appearing more adult than usual. “Is he in danger this morning? I want the truth.”

“Aside from the chaos in Mexico City, he shouldn't be in any danger.”

He was pushing a piece of tortilla around his plate to mop up the last of the egg yolk when he heard what sounded like a distant clap of thunder. He jerked his head toward the door. “That was a fifty!”

57

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

09:20 HOURS

Chief of Station Mike Ortega was frantic over his missing family.

“I'm telling you, nothing's even been touched!” he shouted at Clemson Fields over a secure satellite phone. “The car's still here! No forced entry—nothing! They just vanished!”

“I can't help you if you're going to shout,” Fields said. “Have you called anyone besides me?”

With effort, Ortega forced himself to lower his voice. “Not yet.”

“Well, don't.”

“I'm terrified! I called her phone, and a man answered. I asked to talk to Nancy, and he hung up! What if she was taken by the Ruvalcabas?” Ortega started to tremble. “How in hell could they know who I am?”

Up in Tijuana, Fields was beginning to wonder if giving Serrano the list of deep-cover PFM agents had been such a good idea. Now even Ortega had been compromised, which made him a liability.
“From what I understand, there's been a leak inside the PFM. Agent Mendoza and his family are missing.”

“Oh my God!”
Ortega began to feel dizzy. “Mendoza knows who I am! He gave me up!”

“You have to calm yourself,” Fields insisted. “I'm sending some men, but you need to stay in the house and listen for the phone until they arrive. If your family was taken, someone will certainly call. Whatever you do, do
not
involve local law enforcement. Is that understood? You have to be patient and give me time to get assets in place.”

“This is all because of that goddamn Vaught!” Ortega moaned. “He got me into this!”

“Am I wasting my time with you?” Fields was losing patience. “Are you going belly-up before I have a chance to fix this?”

Ortega stood in his kitchen trying to get a grip on himself. “No,” he finally croaked.

“Good. My men will be there late this afternoon. In the meantime, your job is to wait for the phone to ring and gather whatever intelligence comes your way. Read me?”

“I read you,” Ortega mumbled, starting to cry.

“We'll get this sorted out. Just keep calm.” Fields broke the connection.

Ortega sat down at the kitchen table, resting his head in his hands. He was sure great violence had already been done to his wife, and probably his children. His greatest fear was that the phone would never ring.

After a minute, he sat up and wiped his eyes, nearly jumping out of his skin at the sight of Dan Crosswhite standing in the kitchen doorway. “How the fuck did you get in here?”

Crosswhite tossed Nancy's keychain onto the kitchen table.

Ortega saw the keys and sprang to his feet.

Crosswhite took a Glock 22 from behind his back and aimed it at his face. “Sit your ass back down.”

Ortega did as he was told. “Where's my wife?!”

“She's fine. So are the kids.”

Ortega swallowed the lump in his throat, afraid to believe what Crosswhite had just said. “How do I know you're not lying?”

“You were talking to Fields?”

Ortega nodded.

“He's working with Serrano—but you knew that already, didn't you?”

Ortega's eyes floated. “What are you talking about?”

“I don't have it all worked out yet.” Crosswhite pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. “Tell me who ordered the hit on Alice Downly.”

Ortega shrugged. “Serrano and Ruvalcaba. Who else?”

“And who's the gringo sniper?”

“How should I know? What does this have to do with my family? Tell me where they are!”

“Is Fields sending men?” Crosswhite asked.

“Of course. Now tell—”

“What's he sending them for?”

“To help me find Nancy and the kids! Why else?”

Crosswhite frowned. “Are you that fucking stupid? You're compromised, Mike. Your house is compromised. Your family is compromised. Your whole goddamn reason for being in Mexico is compromised. Do you really think Fields is sending men to
help
you? That's not what he does.”

Ortega's face twisted with confusion. “What the hell are you . . .” His voice trailed off.

“He's is sending men to make you disappear, dumb-ass.”

“You're crazy! Where's Nancy?”

“With my wife.”

Ortega didn't know whether to be relieved or furious. “
You
took them!”

“I didn't
take
anyone. I invited her to come along, and she accepted.”

“She'd never do that! She's been trained.”

“Trained? That's funny. All I had to do was tell her you'd been
abducted by the same people who killed Alice Downly. The second she heard that, she packed her bags, grabbed the kids, and jumped right in the car. Why would she do that, Mike? Do you share state secrets with your wife?”

Ortega looked down at the table top. “You son of a bitch.”

“That's damn stupid, putting your old lady at risk. Where do you think we are, Disneyland?”

“Why did you take my family?”

“I know somebody within the CIA had Downly killed,” Crosswhite said. “Or at the very least, they turned their heads while Serrano had her killed. She wanted US Special Forces to operate south of the border, like they did in Colombia. She wouldn't go along with CIA plans to put Serrano into power, so somebody had her whacked—that, or they set her up for Serrano to do it.

“And it would have worked, except Vaught fucked it up by chasing the sniper and placing Serrano at the scene. That's when Fields was sent down here to clean up the mess. But then there was a major quake, and everything went to shit. How am I doing so far?”

Ortega simply stared.

Crosswhite sat back, keeping the pistol ready. “The look on your face tells me I'm pretty goddamn close. I took your wife, Mikey, because I need you to fill in the blanks.”

Ortega bared his teeth. “You didn't have to drag my family into this, you bastard!”

“Your ambition dragged your family into this. What else do you think put them in my path? You used them for cover after accepting this post because you thought it would get you a cushy assignment up in DC. So don't pawn this shit off on me. Admit it: you were complicit to the Downly hit.”

Ortega's eyes drifted again, and this time Crosswhite caught it. “You piece of shit!” he snarled, getting to his feet.

“I wasn't complicit!” Ortega blurted. “I wasn't! I didn't know a goddamn thing about it until afterward. I swear to God! It was my job to help Fields clean up the mess that Vaught made—that's all!”

Crosswhite put the muzzle of the pistol to Ortega's head. “Who sent that fucking sniper down here? Tell me now, or I'll blow your brains all over the wall!”

“Pope! Okay? Are you happy? It was Pope!”

“Gimme the sniper's name!”

“Rhett Hancock! His name's Rhett Hancock!”

The name meant nothing to Crosswhite. “Tell me more.”

“Pope hired him through a back channel. The crazy bastard doesn't even know he's working for the CIA. He thinks he's working for Serrano. Now Fields has orders to kill him—after Hancock kills Vaught. That's all I know!”

Crosswhite began to pace the kitchen slowly, realizing that the ATRU had become even more dangerous than he'd previously thought. “Here's what you're gonna do, asshole: you're gonna arrange a meeting with Serrano and draw him into the open for me.”

Ortega was aghast. “Me?! I don't have that kind of influence. Are you crazy?”

“You'll contact Serrano,” Crosswhite went on. “You'll tell him Fields has gone rogue; that Pope can't control him. You tell him Fields is moving to take him out and that you have to meet with him as soon as possible to put together a plan.”

Ortega thought it over. “I want to talk to my wife before I do anything.”

“No. You don't talk to your wife until after you've done what I need you to do.”

“Why? What harm can it do?”

“It can do a lot of harm,” Crosswhite said. “Right now, your wife has no idea she's a prisoner. She thinks Serrano's people are hunting her and the kids. If I let you talk to her, you'll ruin everything with that big mouth of yours, and I'll be forced to treat her like a prisoner. I'll have to lock her and the kids in a concrete room until this is over. Is that what you want, dumb fuck?”

Ortega slouched back, brooding over his predicament. “Swear to me they're okay.”

“What good would that do?” Crosswhite was disgusted by the sight of the man sitting before him. “Sit up in the chair like a man. Have some self-respect and stop feeling sorry for yourself. It's no wonder Fields is sending somebody to kill you.”

Ortega sneered. “I've read your file, asshole. The only reason you're not rotting in prison for murder is because Pope saved your hide. Now here you are judging him and me both. You're a fucking hypocrite.”

Crosswhite stared at him, wanting to slug him with the pistol, but there was a measure of truth to what Ortega had said. “Yeah, well,
no soy una moneda de oro para caerle bien a todo el mundo
.” This was a Mexican phrase meaning, I'm not a gold coin to be liked by everyone.

Ortega chortled scornfully. “Speaking of gold, Fields knows about that, too. You and your thieving buddy Shannon are—”

Crosswhite kicked him over in the chair. “Not only is Shannon dead, you piece of shit, he's worth fifty of you!” He kicked Ortega in the rump. “Get your ass off the floor! You got a phone call to make before Fields's people show up and put a bullet in your head.”

58

BAJA CALIFORNIA

10:10 HOURS

Sid Dupree was smoking pot and watching television in the back room of Señor Sid's Jet Ski Rental when he heard the door open and a customer enter the shop. He set aside the pipe and stepped out to see a fellow gringo flipping the Closed sign around. “What the hell you think you're doin', fella?”

The gringo turned to face him, a small backpack over one shoulder, his chiseled visage set. “I heard once that an American can buy things here he can't get anywhere else in Mexico. That still true?”

Dupree stepped out from behind the counter. “Depends who you heard it from.” He was very tan with a shaved head, in his early sixties, and in good shape.

“A man named Steelyard.”

Dupree's face split into a grin. “How is the old bastard?”

“He's dead,” the gringo said.

The grin disappeared. “What happened?”

The gringo told the story, and when he was finished, Dupree stood looking sad. “Well, if a man's gotta go, I suppose that's the way to go, goddamnit.”

“I agree,” the gringo said. “Can you help me or not? I ain't here to waste your time or mine.”

“What do you need?”

“Somethin' to shoot and somethin' to drive.”

“That ain't gonna be cheap.”

“Important things never are.”

“This way.” Dupree led the gringo out back to an open yard cluttered with old Jet Skis, broken sailboards, and a couple of beat-up Winnebago campers. Five or six dogs lounged about in the sand, and there were at least ten cats sunning themselves.

“Sorry about the smell,” Dupree said, referring to the heavy odor of dog and cat feces. “Keeps people from nosin' around.”

He led the gringo behind one of the Winnebagos to where an old sky-blue VW Beetle sat rusting away on four flat tires. “It's gonna take a little bit of work,” he said, ducking into the camper. An air compressor kicked on a few seconds later, and Dupree remerged with an air hose. “We gotta roll this piece of shit outta the way.”

It took a few minutes to inflate the tires, and then both men rolled the VW forward. Dupree grabbed a rusty shovel and dug down through about two feet of sand until the shovel hit something made of metal. After some more digging, he uncovered a steel footlocker. He pried off the lid to reveal a cache of weapons: AK-47s, M4s, MP5s, an M40A5 sniper rifle, and assorted pistols.

“What exactly are ya lookin' for?”

The gringo crouched down and took out an old Government Model 1911 pistol, checking the action to make sure it would cycle the rounds properly. “This'll do.”

“You're kiddin' me. I thought you wanted somethin' to shoot.”

The gringo stood up, hiding the pistol in the small of his back. “I'm lookin' to protect myself. Not start a revolution.”

“Hell, I got one-a those under my mattress I coulda sold ya.”

“How much ya want for it?”

“A thousand,” Dupree said. “And that's at a Steelyard discount. I take a lotta risk keepin' this shit around.”

“It's a fair price,” the gringo said. “Got anything to drive?”

“Well, if ya want somethin' clean, it's gonna take a couple of days and run you at least ten grand. I don't deal in cars, and the Mexicans I do business with are gonna charge at least that when they realize you're in a hurry.”

The gringo pointed to a battered green 1971 Dodge pickup parked near the building. “That run?”

“Yeah, it runs good, but it's mine, and I don't really wanna sell it.”

“I'll give you nine grand, cash, for the pistol, the truck, and two boxes of cartridges.”

The doubt in Dupree's eyes was plain to see. “When?”

“Right now.”

“You on the run from the law?”

“I'm on the run from a lot more than that. We got a deal or not?”

Dupree crouched down, taking two boxes of GI ball ammo from the locker and handing them to the gringo. He slammed the lid shut and stood up. “Remember, amigo, you get caught with so much as a bullet in this country, and you're goin' to jail.”

“Got it.”

They covered the locker over with sand and rolled the VW back into place, scattering the tire tracks with their feet. Then the gringo set his pack on the hood and unzipped it, counting out nine thousand dollars in used $100 bills.

If Dupree was shocked to see so much ready cash, he didn't let on.

“We gonna deflate the tires?” the gringo asked, handing over the money.

Dupree took the cash and turned for the shop. “They'll be flat again in half an hour. I'll get your keys.”

The gringo reached in the open window of the car to snatch an
old tan ball cap from the passenger seat. “Canyonlands, Utah” was stitched to the front of it in brown lettering. “How much for this?”

Dupree turned around. “Smell like cat piss?”

The gringo took a sniff. “Nope.”

“In that case, it's free.”

The gringo pulled on the cap and followed him into the shop.